


The Scandal of Bohemia

by maypoison



Series: The Network [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Detectives, Drug Use, Eventual Romance, Homeless Network, Hurt/Comfort, Modern Setting, Multi, Reader Insert, Slow Build, The Network - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-16 08:13:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15432759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maypoison/pseuds/maypoison
Summary: Based on the original story by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, 'A Scandal in Bohemia'.An old friend returns to Baker Street, bringing a new case to the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. Meanwhile, a royal visitor surprises the homeless Network.





	The Scandal of Bohemia

Sherlock closes the living room door just as your latest client climbs down the wooden staircase. You sink back into your chair and let out a long sigh of relief as the door clicks shut, and the sound of footsteps trails off.

Peace and quiet - at least for a while. 

You had seen two clients in one day, and you were exhausted. Sherlock on the other hand, looked positively giddy. The man walks over to his chair, and sits, before steeping his hands under his chin in his typical ‘thinking’ state. You would have done something similar, but were worried that if you lowered your head, you would fall to sleep instantly.

“Interesting. One head teacher missing, one stolen car from the college, three computer screens broken …” The man muses under his breath, going over all the information he had just heard about his latest case.

“The teachers having an affair with the student.”

Sherlock drops his hands, and looks over towards you. You almost expected the man to be annoyed at your sudden outburst, but instead he just looks curious.

“What?” The man asks, tilting his head. 

“Well, it’s obvious isn’t it?” You retort, not even bothering to look towards your friend from where you were sat apposite him. “The missing head teacher and the missing car? It looks at first glance like she stole the student’s car, but she didn’t, because the student left with her. They obviously realised that it would be better for the student to drive. Wouldn't show up as stolen or missing. The police wouldn't hear about it.”

Sherlock frowns. “Well -”

“If the car really was stolen, that would have come up on the radar, but nothing’s been reported about it.” You continue, before flicking a pencil up and down on your small notebook. It was one of your 'thinking' habits. “The only person who mentioned it was the client, and she works at the school. She must've realised something fishy was going on. Otherwise, why wouldn't we know about it from the missing car?”

“And the computers?” Sherlock asks, and you just shrug.

“Dunno. Maybe they were fooling around and broke them, maybe it has nothing to do with it. Doesn't seem like it's that important to the case.”

“A coincidence?” The detective asks raising an eyebrow, and you note his tone. Clearly, he didn’t like the idea.

"Stranger things have happened, Sherlock.” You reason, finally looking over to the man who was sat in his usual spot by the fire.

Sherlock nods, and pulls out one of his many mobile phones from his trouser pocket. You hadn't heard it buzz, so assume he is planning on sending out a text message or email to someone. For once, you were glad you were working with Sherlock, and not working for him. Getting one of his surprise messages had never the best part of your day.

“I’ll get The Network to look into it. No point wasting time on it myself." The man mumbles, as he begins to type out a long message. "It seems pretty straight forward."

You scoff.

“You mean 'no point wasting time trying to look into something that my brilliant assistant probably just figured out in two minutes'.”

Sherlock doesn't look up for the mobile phone, but you notice a small frown forming on his usual blank face. After finishing his message, the man pockets his phone, and resumes his position with his hands clasped together under his face. You frown at his penetrating gaze. After a few weeks of living with Sherlock, you could tell when he was thinking about something, and when he was burning to ask a question.

You hold back a gulp when you realised he was burning to ask _you_ a question.

"So ..."

"Oh God." 

 "What?"

"I know that tone." You reply, placing down your notebook on a side table. "This is you asking for a favour."

"If you've made a deduction based on one factor -"

"And you've just sent a message, and got a reply that annoyed you." You interrupt, before smirking. "Hence the frown."

Sherlock sighs, and drops his hands. "Some of my Network are apparently too busy to gather some evidence for me." The detective replies, sounding just as annoyed as he looked. "Apparently getting some photographs outside a building is too much work."

You roll your eyes. "Which building?"

"You've made an incorrect deduction. I'm not telling you this to ask you do it."

That surprises you, and you can't help but raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Who do you think would be best to send for the job? Someone young preferably. I'll give them a camera and -"

"People will just think it's a student. Won't look twice." You finish, and Sherlock is already nodding. "I have someone in mind. I'll tell them to come over tomorrow morning."

"Excellent." Sherlock responds, as you pull out your phone, and begin to text. “There is something else you can do for me.” Sherlock suddenly announces, before resting his longs arms on the sides of the leather chair.

“Name it.”

Sherlock seems pleased at your response. He tilts his head in consideration, before rising out of his chair, with a smile on his face. “Walkers down the road should be open Usually –“

“Nope.” You interrupt, just as Sherlock reaches for his wallet.

“You’re refusing?”

“John would kill me if he knew I’d bought you cigarettes.” You retort, and you’re sure you’re right about that.

Sherlock hadn’t smoked since you’d been living at Baker Street, and you wondered why that was. Surely it was nothing to do with your company. It was no doubt the sheer amount of cases that you’d have, and how busy you’d been.

“He won’t know.” Sherlock argues, still fumbling through his wallet. “All evidence will be gone by the time he returns.”

“You can’t know that for sure. He might figure it out.”

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t.” Sherlock continues. He pulls out a £20 note, and holds it before you, still smiling.

He knew how much cigarettes cost, and £20 was too much. It takes you only a second to realise that the detective had avoided his £10 notes in order to make this a bribe.

Well, who were you to turn down some extra cash. You’re sure Sherlock is right, and John wouldn’t find out. The man was distracted enough with Mary anyway.

“Fine.” You finally relent, standing up and reaching for the note. “But I’m only doing this because I’m sure you won’t tell John.”

“Of course I won’t tell him.”

“Or Mycroft.” You add, before heading over to grab your coat.

“Do you think I’m mad?”

“Yes.” You answer immediately, before shrugging on your large coat. “But I don’t worry too much about it. Most brilliant people are.”

Sherlock seems to ignore your comment. Instead, he sweeps over to where his violin was resting on the long sofa at the other end of the room. Sensing that you weren’t going to get a response from the detective, not now that he was clearly occupied, you leave Baker Street in search of some cigarettes.

* * *

You’re back at the flat less than 10 minutes later. It had been too cold to dawdle, or go for a scenic walk, so instead you had headed straight to Walkers, the small corner store just down the road. The owner had smirked as you had approached him, already knowing why you’d come.

Apparently, Sherlock was a regular. Well, not Sherlock himself. One of Sherlock’s Network members, and they always asked for the same thing. You had tried not to let that annoy you as you had paid and pocketed the change.

Now you were stood outside Baker Street, fumbling in your pocket for your set of keys. You would have usually knocked, but Mrs Hudson was gone for the evening. Just as you smile in triumph as you grab the keys, a woman clears his throat behind you.

Turning, you drop the keys, and a middle-aged woman bends to pick them up.

“Sorry.” You mumble, embarrassed, before adding a thank you when the woman hands them back over. “Cold hands.” You add as an explanation of your clumsiness.

“Not a problem.” The woman replies, in impeccable English.

You both stand for a moment, looking at each other, waiting for someone to say something. You wonder if this is a potential client, feeling a little bit too nervous to knock on the door for Sherlock. No, you correct, eyeing the woman up and down for a few seconds. She’s not nervous. If anything she seems, amused …

“Could you do me a small favour?” The woman asks, and you find yourself already nodding, although you’re more confused than ever. “Could you tell me where I could find Sherlock Holmes?”

“Oh.” You answer with a smile, relieved. This strange encounter wasn’t so strange after all. She must be a potential client. “He’s upstairs, in 221B.” You announce, turning to point. “Can I –“

“No, that’s fine thank you.” The woman responds, with an expression that made you think the woman was about to laugh. “Have a good day.” And with that, the woman turns, and walks down the street.

For a moment you think about calling after her, but then you think better of it. Sherlock’s line of work meant you would always met some strange characters. This seemingly innocent woman could be anyone. You wonder who she is as you climb the stairs to the flat.

Divorcee? Murderer? Blackmail? Maybe she’s a reporter …

“Thank you.” Sherlock says, before reaching into your pocket and pulling out the cigarettes.

You scowl as you take off your coat, watching as the man lights one of the cigarettes with a match. “I would have –“

“Taken an extra 4 seconds to hand me them. Time was wasting.” The detective counters, before taking a long drag of his cigarette.

You don’t bother to argue. Instead you just turn, and hang up your coat. Suddenly, the curiosity gets the better of you, and you turn back to the detective.

“Did you see a woman outside?”

Sherlock doesn’t look over towards you, as he mumbles a “Hmm?” Instead he stares into the fire, before taking another drag of his cigarette.

“There was a woman downstairs when I was opening the door. She asked if you lived her.”

“Many people do.” Sherlock responds sarcastically, finally turning away from the fire. “Potential client.”

“I don’t think so.” You argue, even though the detective hadn’t asked you a question. “She didn’t seem … like the client type.”

“Type? There’s a type?” Sherlock counters, and you can’t help but agree that the idea of there being a ‘type’ of client was ridiculous.

“Okay, fair enough.” You concede, sitting down in John’s chair by the fire. “But it was odd.”

Just as Sherlock turns towards you, no doubt about to ask you more questions about this ‘woman’ a noise comes from his phone.

You can’t help but blush.

“Why did your phone just make that noise?”

“What noise?”

“That sounded like a sex noise.”

“Nonsense.”

“Sherlock, I heard a sex noise come from your phone.”

Seemingly annoyed, Sherlock places his cigarette into his mouth, and reaches for his phone. He looks at the screen for a second, before quickly placing the phone back into his pocket.

You wait patiently, but the detective doesn’t say anything.

“Sherlock! What the hell was that?”

“A text message.”

“From who? And why –“

“We have a new client.” Sherlock interrupts, before throwing his half smoked cigarette into the fire.

He hadn’t finished his cigarette? Uh oh, you think, as Sherlock sweeps into his bedroom, apparently to change. This was going to be an interesting one.

* * *

The new client was a tall man, with blonde hair and blue eyes. There was nothing particularly odd about that, except it was very obvious that your client was wearing a wig, contact lenses, and a large black coat that covered their frame.

This was a disguise.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at you as the client sits down, and you have to hide your smirk. You lean over your notebook and begin to scribble some notes.

“I’m sorry, Mr –“

“Conan.” The man answers immediately, with a thick accent that you couldn’t place. “Thank you for seeing me so quickly, Mr Holmes.”

“It’s not a problem. I don’t usually make appointments.”

That was an outright lie, but you don’t question Sherlock on it. Instead, you just continue to make notes, and try to look busy. Suddenly, the client sighs, and looks over towards Sherlock.

“This is a matter best discussed in private, Mr Holmes.” The client says, very obviously referring to you.

You look up immediately, about to stammer an apology and make your exit, but Sherlock just moves to sit in his chair, opposite this new strange client.

“It’s both of us or neither I’m afraid, Mr Conan.” Sherlock answers, before crossing his long legs. “This is my assistant and associate. She helps me on all cases. You have our word that this matter will be kept secret.”

“We don’t share information about cases.” You add, and Sherlock glances over at you, as does the client. “Everything is kept confidential.”

“And John Watson’s blog?” The man questions, and Sherlock can’t hold back a sigh. “That doesn’t seem to be confidential.”

“John asks for permission.” You explain, before closing your notebook. “And he often changes names and details about –“

“Everything will be highly confidential, as we have promised Mr Doyle.” Sherlock interrupts.  

This seems to mollify your new client. He nods, apparently to himself, before looking back over towards the detective sat opposite him.

“Okay. If I have your word …” Sherlock nods, as do you. “Then I will begin. This is a rather sensitive issue.”

“They often are.” Sherlock murmurs, but the client doesn’t seem to hear the detectives comment.

“Some private pictures have been stolen from my employer.” The client continues. “They are polaroid images. One of a kind.”

“Your employer? You mean yourself.” Sherlock responds.

The client glares. “How on –“

“Not important.” Sherlock interjects, with a wave of his hand. “You have our word this case will not be made public, and everything will be kept confidential. You have nothing to fear, and no need to change the facts, Your Highness.”

At that, you freeze. Was Sherlock being sarcastic?

It takes the Mr Conan a few seconds to notice what Sherlock had said. At first he nods, pleased, before his eyes widen.

“Again, how –“

“Your Highness can be assured that everything will remain, classified, shall we say? But it would be better for the investigation if everything you say is the complete truth.”

Mr Conan, apparently some sort of royalty, nods, appearing resigned.

“Then I shall continue. These polaroid’s are around ten years old. They never leave my side.”

“Then they were stolen from you recently?” Sherlock questions, as you begin to take notes once again.

“Yes, Mr Holmes. From a hotel here in central London. I am here to meet –“

“The Royal family.” Sherlock interjects, and you can’t help but be amused at how causally Sherlock says this. “Naturally.”

“I have my own security, as does the hotel, but no one can tell me how the photographs were stolen. It’s ridiculous! It makes me think that someone from my team has been bribed. That’s the only explanation.”

“Wrong.” Sherlock says suddenly, in his monotone voice. “It’s one explanation.”

“Regardless,” The client continues, beginning to sound rather annoyed. “this is why I have come to you, Mr Holmes, rather than talk to my own team. Apparently you are the best.”

“I am.”

“So I can ensure that the images will be recovered, and you will find the person responsible.”

“Of course.” Sherlock answers easily. “I take it these photpgraphs are rather scandalous.”

Mr Conan clenches his jaw, before answering a quick “Yes.”

“And his Highness appears in the photographs as well.”

You frown for a moment, wondering about Sherlock’s tone of voice. He didn’t sound like he was asking questions, or making deductions. It sounded like he knew exactly what had happened. It sounded like the detective had seen something similar before …

“On the return of the photographs, you will receive your reward. When the person responsible is arrested, I will double that reward.”

The client looks over towards you, and you shift in your chair. He points down to your notebook and clicks his fingers. You have to suppress an eyeroll as you hand over your notebook on a clean page.

Mr Conan quickly scrawls something and hands the book to Sherlock. He barely looks at the page, before placing the notebook down on the side table.

“Thank you, I think that is everything we need to know.” Sherlock responds, before quickly standing. “You’re staying …”

You listen as Sherlock escorts the client down the stairs, discussing where the man was staying, and how Sherlock can get in touch. You wondered why the detective hadn’t asked more questions.

Picking up your notebook, you nearly drop it in shock when you read the scrawled note of your latest client.

“£1,000,000.”

Your client was going to pay you and Sherlock a million pounds if you solved the case!

Well, you think, moving to put the kettle on, and make you and Sherlock a cup of coffee. You had better get to work …

* * *

**Sherlock POV**

Deep down, Sherlock had known he would once again hear from The Woman.

She couldn’t just disappear, without getting in contact once again. Sherlock knew that one day, for some reason, Irene Adler would emerge from the shadows. What he hadn’t been expecting, was for her to make such a key mistake.

She had repeated herself.

As she had done before, she had found herself someone wealthy, with immense power, and she had played them. Once, a while ago, Irene Adler had used Moriarty to exploit the British Royal Family. Now, Sherlock is sure Irene Adler is working alone.

He leaves Baker Street at midnight, using the cover of darkness to head into the city. The detective avoids cabs and public transport, instead choosing to walk. The church wasn’t far away …

How odd, the detective had thought, upon reading The Woman’s message. Just a simple address, no quip or sarcastic comment. Clearly, she wanted to meet, and bargain with him in order to exploit Sherlock’s new client.

For who else could have exploited a King, then Irene Adler.

Sherlock stays outside the church for a while, nursing a cigarette, and hiding in the shadows. He hears voices inside but doesn’t move to enter the building. He waits, and listens. He wasn’t so sure that Irene Adler didn’t have a nefarious plan to, god forbid, embarrass the man.

Sherlock was sure that Irene had the polaroid’s and was aware of course that the King would come to Sherlock. Who else would the man approach, knowing how dire the situation was. Scotland Yard? Unlikely, considering how easily the public and press could learn of the case. No, Sherlock was the only option, and of course, Irene Adler would be fully aware of that fact.

Suddenly, the door to the church swings open, and a man appears.

Sherlock assess him immediately. Mid 30’s, fairly wealthy. Probably a banker, considering the watch. Local lad, but well-travelled. Clear from his teeth –

“You.” The man says suddenly, eyeing a disguised Sherlock, and stopping the detective as he makes his deductions. “Come inside, please.”

“Smokin’” Sherlock all but growls as a response, in a thick, and fake, accent.

“If you don’t witness it, it won’t be legal…” The man mutters, approaching Sherlock. He sounds to be speaking more to himself than to the man in front of him. “You’ll get paid. All you have to do is watch.”

“Watch wha’?” Sherlock questions, as he is ushered into the church.

Suddenly, Sherlock sees her, and he has to remind himself to stay in character. After all, at this moment he was a homeless wanderer, and not a detective. But how could he not react, upon seeing her?

Irene Adler, stood at the alter of a church, a knowing smile on her face.

“Where d’ya want me?” Is all Sherlock says in greeting, walking down the aisle.  

* * *

**Reader POV**

You realise Sherlock had snuck out around 3am. You had been making your way downstairs to the kitchen, intent on getting a drink, when you’d noticed it. Sherlock’s bedroom door was wide open, and clothes were scattered all around the bed and on the floor.

Looking for something? You wonder, as you press on the hallway lights for a closer look. No, you think, stepping just inside the room. Sherlock appeared to have been going through his ‘costumes’. He had disguised himself. You’re sure that it is something to do with your recent case but knowing that you’re not going to get any answers soon, and that Sherlock would call you if he needed you, you head back up to bed, glass of water in hand.

The heavy footsteps signalling the detectives return sound around 11pm. You had stayed in the living room all day and night, religiously checking your phone. No word from Sherlock, and no word from any of the Network. Before you could start to panic, Mrs Hudson had come into the flat, bag of groceries in hand, mentioning that Sherlock had asked for some food because he’d ‘be back late’.

Sometimes you could kill the man for leaving you worried over nothing.

So you had sat, phone resting on the arm of the sofa, and laptop in hand. You’d done some research about your client and tried to see if anything had come up about explicit photographs of the King of Bohemia. You had realised the mans identity after a few minutes of searching on Google images. The disguise had apparently not been that successful.

Just as you close a tab, Sherlock sweeps into the room. Only, it takes you a few seconds to realise that it is in fact Sherlock Holmes, and not an intruder. He’s in a disguise, complete with a wig and some fake facial hair. You can’t help but smirk when you realise he’s trying to be a homeless person.

He wasn’t dirty enough.  

“You’re back.” You announce, shutting your laptop.

“Obviously.” Sherlock replies, marching over towards the fire place, and standing in front of it.

You watch for a moment, wondering when the man was going to speak. When he doesn’t you move to ask the detective a question, before suddenly realising that the detective was wearing a t-shirt that was extremely familiar.

“Is that mine?”

“I needed it, for the disguise.” Sherlock explains, his back still towards you.

You roll your eyes, but don’t’ make a smart retort. That’s what you get for leaving clean clothes in the living room. “Where did you go? Was it for the case?”

“Of course.”

At the man’s tone of voice, you can’t help but tilt your head. He sounded, almost upset.

“Sherlock?”

“What do you know about Irene Adler?”

The question throws you for a few seconds, and you have to mentally shake yourself. The name was familiar … ah yes! You’d read about her before.

“Not much.” You answer, honestly. “Just what I read on John’s blog. There was the case –“

“You’ve never met her.”

“No.” You reply, ignoring the fact that the detective interrupted you.

“That wasn’t a question.”

“Sherlock,” You sigh, moving to stand up. “What is going on?”

“The person responsible for stealing the Kings photographs, was the woman who was in the photographs with him.” Sherlock turns then and crosses his arms over his broad chest. He doesn’t smile, even though you think he usually would be at this point. He’d solved the case. “Miss Irene Adler.” The man continues, and you frown.

“How –“

“She’s done it before, very similarly. A stupid mistake for her to make. Clearly she’s desperate for money.”

“She was blackmailing him?”

“Yes.” Sherlock answers, before reaching up to pull the fake facial hair from his pale skin. He winces as the items come off his face before he throws them in the fire. “Huge amounts of money in exchange for her silence and the photographs. She contacted him last night, hence why I left in the early hours.”

“But, I thought Irene Adler disappeared.” You reply, moving to sit in John’s chair. “Hadn’t she committed crimes? She was being watched by the government.”

“She did, and she is.” Sherlock replies, now looking much more like himself. “Like I said, she must be very desperate.”

“So, she’s back in London?”

“No.”

That really throws you. Sherlock just stands looking down at you, waiting for you catch up with his train of thought.

“I’m confused.”

Sherlock sighs, and reaches up to remove his wig. “A woman by the name of Elizabeth Norton is in London. A singer, and a talented one if her assistant is to be believed. Lovely woman, terrible accent.”

“Assistant?”

“She’s staying at The Mayfair.” Sherlock continues, ignoring your question. You don't even ask how the man had figured that out. Of course, he knew anything. “Was, I should say. She’s gone.”

“Gone where?”

“That doesn’t matter now.” Sherlock dismisses, and you can’t help but frown once again. “I assume you’ve figured out who Elizabeth Norton is.”

“Irene Adler, taking a false name.” You reply, finally catching up. “Makes sense, considering what happened last time she was in London.”

“Indeed.”

Sherlock begins to place items of his disguise on his chair, with his back to you once again. Whilst he’s turned, you can’t see his face, but the tension in his shoulders was giving him away. Something else was going on …

“She’s left? But, the photograph?”

“They didn’t reach a deal.” Sherlock replies, obviously talking about the King.

“But –“

“It doesn’t matter!”

Sherlock's voice rings out in the small flat, and you stand, open mouthed. Sherlock had never yelled at you like that. He’d been frustrated, upset, annoyed, but angry? Never like this.

Before you can question the detective, or tell him to stop being a dick, and knock sounds from downstairs. Sherlock just sighs.

“Right on time.” The man pulls off his hoody, and walks past you, avoiding your questioning gaze. “I’ll be upstairs.”

“What?”

“She can’t know I’m here.”

“Sherlock, what –“

The detective spins around then, finally meeting your eyes. “Irene Adler just got married.”

You had not been expecting that.

“What?”

“That’s where I was. I went, in disguise, to try and find her." Sherlock replies, avoiding your questioning gaze. Was he hiding something? "She got married, using her real name.”

“So, now they’ll be able to track her.”

“Yes, and now that they can track her –“

“She’s going to run again.” You interject, realising the dilemma. She would run, untraced, taking the photograph with her. “You don’t want to see her.” You ask, but Sherlock is already shaking his head. “This might be a goodbye.”

“No.” Sherlock replies, although you’re not exactly sure which part he is replying to. “Say whatever you have to. I won’t be listening.”

* * *

You move to put the kettle on, before heading downstairs. You thought it was only polite, and the noise of the boiling water might give Sherlock a chance to settle upstairs, without being heard.

Irene Adler stands as the door, a black car with blacked out windows behind her, waiting. You look her up and down, before sighing, and stepping back to let her in.

You’d met her before. She had handed you your keys when they had dropped outside the door, earlier that day.

You wondered if you’d ever met a person in London who wasn’t an enemy, friend or client of Sherlock Holmes.  

“I trust you know where you’re going.”

Irene doesn’t respond, just smiles, and steps into the building. You look over at the car for a moment, but seeing no movement, shut the door and head upstairs.

Irene immediately goes over to Sherlock’s chair, and sits down, taking off her gloves and scarf. She seems extremely comfortable, and you don’t know why this makes you angry, but it does.

“Irene Adler -”

“Actually, it’s Irene Norton now.” The woman interrupts, and you force a smile.

“My apologies.”

“Most people would say ‘congratulations’.” The woman responds, settling back into the chair, with a fake smile of her own.

“I’m not most people.” You retort, stepping further into the room, and wondering if you should sit in John’s chair. “I would say nice to meet you, but we’ve already met.”

“Sorry about that. But I had to be sure.”

You sit down with a sigh. “That Sherlock still lived here?”

“No.” Irene responds, smiling once again.

She looks at you closely, and it makes you squirm. You were used to Sherlock looking at you like that, like he was trying to deduce every single piece of information about you that he could. But this woman wasn’t Sherlock Holmes.

If John’s blog was to be believed, this woman was the opposite of Sherlock Holmes.

“Why are you here?” You question, and Irene finally turns her gaze from you.

“I came to say goodbye.”

“Sherlock isn’t here.” You lie easily. You’d be taught well. “He’s on a case.”

“I can see that.” Irene replies, looking around the room. “He told you I presume. About me, about everything.”

“What do you know about me –“

“I know that you have done something I never thought possible.” The woman interrupts, turning back towards you.

Once again, you can’t help but squirm under her penetrating gaze.

“What?”

Irene leans forward then, resting a well-manicured hand on her face. “You’ve broken Sherlock Holmes.”

“Broken?”

“You’ve got under his skin.” Irene continues, ignoring your discomfort. “You’ve done what I couldn’t do. You beat him.”

“At what? I’m not playing a game.”

“Aren’t you?” The woman questions with a smirk, before waving her arm across the room in a passive gesture. “Moving in here, becoming his assistant, and then becoming his friend –“

“Just as John did.”

“No, John was a coincidence.” Irene replies, making you wonder just how much she knew about you, and the friends of Sherlock Holmes. “A happy coincidence yes, but a coincidence nonetheless. Sherlock hadn’t expected that, and he hadn’t wanted it.”

“Stop talking about him like you know him.” You can’t hide the venom in your voice. “He’s a grown man, not a prize, and not a form of entertainment.”

“Sweetheart, I know him better than most. Do you know why?” Irene drawls, raising an eyebrow. “Because I understand how his mind works.”

“He respects you, that much is true. But Sherlock –“

“Doesn’t have friends. I’m sure he’s said as much to you. And yet, here you are. Living in his house, solving his cases.”

“How do you know anything about this?”

“I have a friend who keeps in touch.” The woman answers easily, before crossing her legs. “I’m always eager to hear about Sherlock Holmes.”

A friend? Who the hell was friends with Irene, that is also friends with Sherlock? Who would still keep in touch?

“If you know about Sherlock, why are you here now?” You question, leaning back in your own chair, and crossing your own legs. “What do you want?”

“I told you, I wanted to say goodbye.”  The woman reaches under her coat and pulls out a brown envelope. “And to give him this…”

She places the envelope on the floor between you, clearly waiting to see what you’ll do in response. You eye the small package, and then, sensing the challenge, smile up at Irene sweetly, making no move to pick it up.

“I’ll pass on the message.”

Irene laughs once, before standing up. “So, now you’re his guard dog? Can’t the man speak for himself?”

“Like you said Miss Adler,” You respond, purposely calling the woman by the wrong name. “I’m Sherlock’s friend.”

“Yes, indeed you are. How interesting …”

The way the woman looks at you as she trails off, makes your blood boil.

You already had Sherlock looking at you like you were a science experiment. You didn’t need her to do it to.

“I don’t understand.” You continue, also standing. “Why would you make him watch that?”

“Make him?” Irene questions, frowning for a moment. “I didn’t make him do anything.”

“You could have stopped the wedding and he would have left. You could have –“

“Stopped my own wedding? For the sake of Sherlock Holmes?”

“I’ll admit I don’t know much about you, but I know the case you had with Sherlock.” You reply, thinking about the blog John had written about Irene Adler. It was one of his best. “You owe him.”

“Well, that is certainly true.” Irene agrees, slowly walking over to the table in the living room. She lifts a piece of paper, and flippantly appears to read it. “The man saved my life.”

“And yet you chose to taunt him.”

“Taunt him?”

“Don’t play dumb.” You retort, moving to stand next to the woman, but she just huffs a laugh, and continues to investigate the papers on the table.

You hoped Sherlock hadn’t left anything important on there.

“Now who is playing a game.”

“I’m not playing any games.” Finally you sigh, and look over at the clock on the mantlepiece. It was late, and you’re sure Irene wasn’t going to say anything else useful. You take another step forward, standing right next to the woman. “You’ve said what you wanted to say, you’ve left Sherlock what you wanted to leave. I think it’s time for you to go.”

Irene turns and faces you, this time with a blank expression. She watches you closely for a moment, and you maintain eye contact.

Suddenly she sighs, and reaches into her coat pocket, pulling out her gloves. “At least its you …” The woman mutters cryptically, as she heads for the door. “Take care of him. Protect him.”

And with that the woman leaves, leaving you alone in the living room, staring at the brown envelope. You gather it up, just as Sherlock enters the room.

How were you going to explain this?

 


End file.
